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FOREST AND TOWN 



FOREST AND TOWN 
POEMS 



By Alexander Nicolas De Menil 




THE TORCH PRESS 

NEW YORK and CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA 

London: 26, Henrietta Street 

Co vent Garden, W. C. 

1910 



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a\ 






Copyright, 1910 
Alexander Nicolas De Menil 



November 



©CLA275902 



It, 



TO THE MEMORY OP 
ONE WHOSE TRAGIC DEATH LEFT A VOID IN MY. LIFE 

NEVER TO BE FILLED IN THIS WORLD 

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK 



PREFACE 

About one-third of these verses were written 
when the writer was in his twenties and were 
published between 1870 and 1887, in New York 
and St. Louis magazines and weekly literary- 
papers, and the Sunday issues of St. Louis daily 
newspapers. 

Of the remaining verses, the undated ones 
were written during the passed six years — and 
the writer regrets that there are not more of 
them in evidence. These, and many of the 
verses bearing date subsequent to 1886 herein 
receive their baptism of type. 

In conformity with the advice of several 
friends, "The Blue Bird" and "The Song of 
Ixus," which appeared in a former book by the 
writer ("Songs in Minority ,, ) are included in 
this book. 

In the preface to "Songs in Minority," the 
writer apologized for the sad — and at times, 



morbid — tone of some of the verses. Great was 
his astonishment upon being informed by the re- 
viewers and critics that an apology was inadmis- 
sible — as no error in taste had been committed ! 
With this lesson before him, he will severely ab- 
stain from all allusion as to the tone of some of 
the verses in the present book. 

Many forms of versification are herein at- 
tempted; two of the poems are in composite 
meters of which no prior examples exist in Eng- 
lish poetiy. Diversity of subject and diversity 
of treatment has been the aim in the selection 
of these verses from among some one hundred- 
odd that have been accumulating in the writer's 
desk since many years. & 

It will probably be unnecessary to intimate to 
the average critic that the writer has "the hon- 
esty of his convictions ! ' ' 

St. Louis, October, 1910. 



CONTENTS 




NATURE 




The Panther's Trail . 


13 


A Forest Reverie 


16 


The Forest Grave 


18 


In the Woods . . 


23 


In Nature's Haunts . 


25 


Winter 


3? 


The Song of Spring . 


33 


The Meeting of the Years 


36 


The Blue Bird .... 


44 


The Song of Ixus 


47 


LOVE 




The One Fair Woman 


55 


Athleen : a Portrait . 


59 


The Face at the Window . 


62 


Farewell! Farewell! 


66 


A Human Cry .... 


68 


FRIENDSHIP 




My Last' and Only Friend . 


79 


Fading Beauty .... 


88 



10 



CONTENTS 



DEATH 








When I 'm Dead and Buried, Love ! . 95 


Bosalie 98 


Under the Roses .... 100 


Implora Pace! 105 


MISCELLANEOUS 


William Makepeace Thackeray . 109 


The Saddest Words . 


112 


My Age 






114 


A Life Creed 






118 


Fame .... 






120 


The Night Walker . 






121 


How Long ? . 






123 


Defeat 






126 


An Adjuration . 






128 


The New Philosophy 






129 


The Socialists . . 






132 


Eventide 






134 



FOREST AND TOWN 



NATURE 



FOREST AND TOWN 



THE PANTHER'S TRAIL 

Night 's sombre mantle hangs uncertain in the sky 
As if 't were all-unwilling and ashamed 
To clothe earth's majesty in nothingness. 
The stillness clutches at my throat ; no sound 
Breaks on my ear, save nature 's mystic silence. 

A sense akin to fear seizes upon my soul 

As with hushed breath I enter these vast solitudes. 

Some wild beast here has faintly marked a path 
Through briar, brush and tangled vine ; 
With trembling hand I push aside 
The interfering branches of the bending trees 
And follow the devious trail. But not for long ; 
Beyond yon bend the gloom shuts out the line — 



14 FOBEST AND TOWN 

The desecrating foot of man forbids. 
And as mine eyes search hard the desolate gloom 
That lies alike a funeral pall across the trail, 
My mind, half -awed, falls into dreamy moods 
And rends the future's veil from these primeval 
woods. 

Lo ! fancy pictures to the view the broad 
And length 'ning highway of a future age 
Where now the panther treads his lonely round ; 
Here a great city '11 rear its tow 'ring spires, 
The home of trade and traffic far and near, 
And civ'lization's crimes and brutal ways; 
Here men will buy and sell, and cheat and steal, 
And women barter their souls for gold and 

baubles ; 
Here pride and hate, and lust and murder will 

hold sway; 
Here men will upbuild gilded palaces 
And call them churches, and with swelling pride 
Proclaim aloud : ' ' This is a Christian land ! " — 
While th' humble Nazarene will bow His lowly 

head 



TEE PANTHER'S TRAIL 15 

And weep in sorrow and in shame without the 
door! 

Ah better far a cycle of God's solitudes 
Than one day of man's brutal empire. This 
Green earth, these lordly trees were when he was 

not ; they 
Will be when he will be forgotten save by Him 
Who gave him a brief span of breath and futile 
. life ! 



A FOREST REVERIE 

Recumbent on the sere and withering grass, 
Gray-green and chilled by autumn's early breath, 
With tired, aching head at ease on bended arm 
Adown the knoll mine eyes chase golden butter- 
flies 
That slowly wing their flight to sumach bushes, 

red 
"With the dripping heart of dying summer. 

O'er their tops, 
Par from the droning hum and noisy whirl 
Of yonder distant city, vapor-crowned with toil 
And labor, — whose vast columns of black smoke 
Rise in this calm and breathes atmosphere 
Alike a huge, triumphant monument 
Unto its genius and its progress, — silent, sad, 
And half -forgotten, lost in maple depths 
Of tow 'ring forest giants, lo! the humble shafts 
Of yon lone, modest forest cemetery rear 
Their futile heads as if in mere apology 



A FOBEST BEVEEIE 17 

At their own boldness and presumption ; then 
They melt into the belt of yellow leaves 
Like snowflakes in the rays of the setting sun. 

(1872). 



THE FOREST GRAVE 

' 'It is Well!". ... He was a poet. So I said 
As I bent o'er the time-worn slab. He left no 

lofty rhymes, 
No gentle cadences, no vast, impassioned 

utt 'ranees 
To blot one dreary hour from anguished souls 

that drag life's chains 
On earth to-day ; still, I maintain he was a poet, 

— mute 
And voiceless if you will, but nathless suff'ring 

through the hope 
For purer, grander days and vaster purposes. 

Because 
The cycade be mute and hath no voice to syllable 
Her pain, trust you her silent life holds not an 

anguished hour ? . . . . 
He, too, was mute ; nathless, I say he was a poet ; 

deep 



THE FOBEST GBAVE 19 

And cunningly hid from the souls of vulgar men 

the thought 
I read in the heart-throb of resignation: "It is 

Well!" 

' ' It is Well !".... poet soul, well that the 
heart 

Has ceased to ache ; the bruised soul to crush it- 
self in rage 

All too useless against th' unyielding bars of 
mocking fate; 

Well that the desecrating contact with the brutal 
world 

Has ceased to agonize thy better intuitions ; that 

The weary burden of the sameness of the end- 
less days 

And nights, no longer weave a fire in thy restless 
brain ; 

Well that the hollow mock'ry of woman's hollow 
love, 

And jackal greed of lying man no longer irritate 

Thy finer sentiments and nobler aims and pur- 
poses ; 



20 FOBEST AND TOWN 

Well that the dumb and agonized outreaching 

for the vast, 
The infinite and beautiful, — the hot and bitter 

tears 
For the sublime and trusting faith of childhood 

trail no more 
Their white heats through thy heart. Yea, well 

for thee that all is now 
At rest, in peace forevermore ! . . . . Here, 

standing o'er thy grave, 
gentle poet soul, I catch the fragrance of a 

sigh 
That wafted faintly, dreamily through these old 

hemlock boughs 
By dying breezes, falls alike a pure and holy 

nun's 
Soft benediction on my soul that's suff'ring: 

"It is Well!" 

The silvery-green waves feebly lap the yellow 
beach, 

The sad stars tremulously quiver in the gray- 
blue sky, 



THE FOREST GRAVE 21 

The wooded slopes beyond die in the black and 

vistaed gloom, 
The dismal wind weaves faintly through the 

giant, centenarian oaks 
A weird and dreary monotone, and over all a 

dim 
Sepulchral shadow 'gins to lower; I feel thy 

soul's abroad 
To-night ; my nerves are tense with exquisite 

expectation, — 
In agony I wait, brother soul, for word, for 

sound from thee! 



Out from the quivering lake the breezes land- 
ward bear 

The harsh and brutal voice of sordid man, the 
studied laugh 

Of subtle and deceitful woman, — and, in vast 
derision, 

A loon's shrill, taunting cry mingles, and pierces 
through it all! 



22 FOBEST AND TOWN 

And this is all I hear — this is my message ! I 
look down 

Upon the desolate grave o'ergrown with rank 
weeds and half -hid, 

Half -sheltered by the drooping branches of the 
tow 'ring oaks; 

With loving, sympathetic hand I gently touch 
the fast 

Obliterating letters on the fallen tombstone, 
gray 

And ragged-edged and cracked, — deep-furrowed 
with time's envious rust, 

And crumbling into dust and earthy nothing- 
ness; and so, 

With reverential head uncovered, bent, broth- 
er soul 

Whose fate foreshadows mine, I sadly murmur: 
"It is Well!" 

(Lake Geneva, July 26, 1887.) 



IN THE WOODS 

A holy calm fills all my life to-day. 

I am content; I am at peace with God and man. 

A silent, sweet companionship with tree 
And shrub, and earth and sky, is mine ; 
My soul expands with every breath of air 
That floats out of the womb of this vast solitude. 
To dream of simpler, better things and deeds, 
And pledge myself to live in purer ways, 
To love all things that He has shaped to life, 
Forget the wrong done me, and so forgive, — 
This is my mood to-day. 

All pride and hate is dead within my heart ; 
I would not harm even my bitt'rest enemy; 
I pity him who seeks with longing soul 
The empty praise and meaningless applause of 

man, 
The petty triumphs, power and renown of life I 



24 FOBEST AND TOWN 

Ah, man is far from me to-day. Alike 

A sad and half -remembered dream of long ago 

He dwells within my memory. But God is 

near, — 
I feel His holy presence in the very air 
Around me ; in my soul He has vouchsafed 
To enter, and so purify my being. . . . 
I bow my head in reverence and humility, 
And say with fervent lips, ' ' Thy will be done ! ' ' 

I am rich in this holy peace and self -content ; 
My life's cup overflows. The world is poor 
To-day — a very beggar at my feet ; > 
Poor bankrupt, it has naught that it could give 
To me!— naught I would condescend t 'accept! 
And so let me live on obscure and all-forgotten 
In these vast, solitary woods where nature knows 
No law of brutal man, and when He deemeth 

best, 
Here die untrammelled, unmissed and unknown ! 



IN NATURE'S HAUNTS 

Well-pleased am I, when so I may, 

To turn my face to primeval woods, 

And hold communion — and so live a vast day 's 

breadth — 
With our great mother nature in her haunts, 
Read in her face her various wishes, and obey ; 
Mark well her constant changes and the promises 
She bears upon her fertile breast and in the air ; 
And listen long and lovingly to the sweet har- 
monies 
That issue from her wooded depths, — and feel 

my heart 
Throb peacefully in loving unison with hers. 

In early spring I love to hear 
The blue birds in the awak'ning hours of day, 
Among the branches of the leafless trees 
Pour forth the gladdening promises 



26 FOBEST AND TOWN 

Of nature reawaking, casting off 

With radiant smiles its coat of white for mantle 

green ; 
The minnesingers of the air the blue birds are, 
They put a joyous song into my heart ; 
I hail them as a dream of youth and hope gone 

by, 

And kiss my hand to all their pretty ways. 

In summer, when the dust and din and heat 
Make life a plague within the city's space, 
Well-pleased am I to catch a passing breath 
Of God's fresh air; to feel the breezes on my 

brow 
And listen to what music winds make, or to 

walk 
Adown great avenues of branching oaks, 
And child-like strive to catch and hold 
A struggling and evasive sunbeam here and 

there, 
And laugh in chorus with the voices in the tops 
Of the great patriarchal trees ; or bend mine ear 



IN NATURE'S HAUNTS 27 

And listen to my voice, and smile in pure delight 
As it rolls from the valley, 'fore me going on 

and on 
As if in mockery to announce that man 
With tyrant and polluting foot invades this 

fair domain 

I lower bend my head, — now fainter, fainter 

still, 
Until in yonder distance I have lost the sound. 
And this, puny man, is all thy boasted 

power — 
A breath of air that dies in vast, eternal space ! 
man, but thou art but a weak and foolish child 
In these eternal, silent solitudes ! Man builds, 
But God lives not, in the towns ; it is here 
That thou canst feel His vastness and His 

power ; 
Canst see Him in His handiwork, and feel 
Thy better nature, humbled and subdued, here 

triumph o'er 
The ill j this dumb and working life, this sweet 
And holy calm, these boundless, spacious soli- 
tudes, 



28 FOBEST AND TOWN 

Speak louder and far deeper than all sermons 

man 
Hath ever written or ever preached, and all 
Good he hath done, and all example he hath 

taught,- — 
For nature is God's sermon unto man! 

In winter nature is so sad, so bleak, so dead ! 
And yet, there is a grandeur in her very deso- 
lation 
Far more sublime than all her kindlier moods. 
Come to the woods. There is no vaster, grander 

sight 
Than from the ruddy window of yon forest hut, 
That stands grim 'gainst the dull and leaden 

sky, 
Sentinelled, silent on the topmost crest 
Of a slow-rising hill, to gaze on mighty trees 
"Whose leafless, tow 'ring tops are dim above 
In thousand various ways, and gaily glistening 
With winter's icy tears — her pendant icicles, 
When the December sun pours down his genial 
rays, 



IN NA TUBE >S EA UN TS 29 

A warming flood of golden glory. For countless 

leagues 
Around, beyond the reach of searching eyes, 
The blinding snow is heaped upon the yellow 

earth, 
Or falling in a silver shower on the tranquil 

breast 
Of yonder lake to kiss its bosom lovingly — and 

die. 

The vast, unending leagues of white world are 

so sad, 
So desolate, they wake within my weary soul 
A yearning wish for everlasting peace and rest ! 

Who loves not nature hath a sordid heart 
Half -sold to greed and gain and hate. Low cun- 
ning and a love 
Of all things sensual, vain and mediocre are his 

sum of life ; 
His soul doth never rise to inspiration's height, 
But grovels in an artificial city park, 



30 FOBEST AND TOWN 

Or on the banks of a commercial stream; 

His passions are half -stunted, and his pleasures 
bound 

By dark horizons of greed, vanity and selfish- 
ness; 

A mediocre soul that's stunted in all things, 

In dullness brother of the brute, half -dead, half- 
'live; 

With base and grov'ling instincts, not conceiv- 
ing life, 

The world, himself, — nor caring yet to under- 
stand 

Save where advantage to him lies. He dies 

As he has lived, between a gutter and an alley, 
huge, 

Fit boundaries for him whose soul has been 
content 

Between them, and has not above, beyond them 
risen ! 

(1871-1873.) 



WINTER 

Lo! winter pitched her white tents on the hills, 
Proclaiming martial law throughout the land. 

Her icy fingers touched the bosoms of the 

streams, 
And froze their babbled wanton melodies. 

The snowflakes flutter from the dome of heav'n 
Like softest down that's shaken from the angels' 
wings. 

The cold wind 's symphony through needled pines 
Is soft as pearl notes dropped from music's 
heart. 

The shivering earth with daggers tiny, green, 
Her white shroud stabs at — struggles viciously 
to rend. 



32 FOBEST AND TOWN 

The chilled and icy centenarian oaks 
Hang frozen tears in mute appeal to spring. 

Were there no winter, there would be no spring 
Thus is the story of our patience told. 



THE SONG OF SPRING 

Resurgam ! Resurgam ! 
'Tis the dawn of the bluer skies; 
I will arise ! I will arise ! 
The blue bird's on the branch, the robin on the 

wing; 
Swell out, burst forth, ye buds, for I am spring ! 
Ye songs of wintered birds outring; 
The snows melt out, the winter dies, — 
I will arise ! I will arise ! 

Resurgam ! Resurgam ! 
'Tis the blossoming promise o' May, 
The dawn of earth's resurrection day. 
Green, bright and budding the primeval woods 

again, 
As beautiful beneath this gentle shimmering rain 
As e'er before white winter dropped her shroud 
Of snow and hid their fairness 'neath a passing 
cloud. 



34 FOREST AND TOWN 

Resurgam ! Resurgam ! 
We hail thee, wondrous May ! 
Within thy womb the soul rewakes again; 

Exquisite the prophecy of to-day, 
That like a benediction lifts from earth earth's 

stain. 
Lo ! our great mother with velvet green is 
girdled 'round, 
The budding branch with joyous songsters 
fills the tree; 
The garden space with fiery crests will soon be 
crowned, — 
may our earthly springs thus ever lovely 
be! 

Resurgam ! Resurgam ! 
The wind blows here, the wind blows there, 
There's a sense of joy in the very air; 
Lo ! cityward, the star o ' Bethlehem plays hide 

and seek, 
The violet casts its white spread — wakens from 
its winter sleep ; 



THE SONG OF SPBING 35 

The lilac bush is swollen with blossoming pride, 
And the snowball pledges to rival an ermined 
bride. 

Resurgam ! Resurgam ! 
Lo ! mine the green earth, the bluer skies ; 

I will arise ! I will arise ! 
The blue bird's on the branch, the robin on the 

wing; 
Swell out, burst forth, ye buds, for I am spring ! 
man, let songs of praise outring; 

The snows melt out, the winter dies, — 
I will arise ! I will arise ! 



THE MEETING OF THE YEARS 



The snow! Th' unpitying, ceaseless snow! 

The whole night through, the whole day long, 

It fell and drifted downward, — fell 
On poor men's hearts and starving widows' 

souls ! 
And ever, ever yet it falls and drifts 
O'er town and field, o'er hill and valley, till all 
Is covered deep with its white purity, — 
Till even it does seem as if the Lord 

Had cast the mantle of His pity 

'er all the world, with all its crime 

And sin and stain. 

Alone, as free, 

Unfettered as the falling flakes, 
Almost an outcast of my human kind, 
To-night I sit beneath this humble roof 
Long leagues away from all that binds me still 



TEE MEETING OF THE YEAES 37 

To life and hope. I sit and gaze without; 
The trees are bleak and bare, with searching 

arms 
Uplifted to the sky in mute appeal 
Against the weary burden, white and cold, 

Upon them. Deep hid rests the earth 
Beneath a pure, white coverlet, and all 
The forest road lies half -impassable 

Beneath a dull and leaden sky, 

Across whose dreary, dismal face 

The countless snowflakes, like a swarm 

Of white bees ever downward sail 

In silent showers. 

And as I gaze, 
"Well-tired of the white immensity, 
Mine eyes half-close, and through my idle brain 
There floats a vision, half-reality, 

Half-fancy, yet withal a dream 
Of what has been, and what may be again. 

(November, 1883.) 



38 * FOREST AND TOWN 

II 

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW 
I 

' ' Old year that 's lingering, loitering here — 
Whose life is waning fast away, 

I ask thy tale 

Ere voice shall fail 
To thee, and time proclaims a new-born day. 

"I list to hear, 

What the new year 
Will bring to us. Is it not joy 

And goodly cheer, 

But sorrow, fear, 
That comes with time's new-born envoy?" 

II 

Thereat the old year, half -prophetic, yet evasive, 
said: 
"I little know of future time, yet gladly will 
I tell 



THE MEETING OF THE YEABS 39 

What I have learned. Full soon the world with 
joy will hail me dead; 
As to the child-king soon to be, my prophesy 
heed well : 

" 'Soon the bright new year, 
Will be here, 

With its joyful youth, 
With its boon of love and truth, 

With its better ways, 

And its brighter days ' ; 
So the world doth say to me ; 
Lo ! behind the mask, I see — 
Shattered hopes and bitter tears, 
Cold deceit and endless fears ; — 
This, man! will come to thee. 

1 ' Speed me to my death ! the new — 
Bitterly I speak, but true, — 
Like me will grow old and sere ; 
'Leven months in its career, 

Then the world will say, 

In a careless way: 



40 FOBEST AND TOWN 

'It is useless to us now, 

Palsied in its limbs, 

Wrinkled on its brow, 
Let the old, worn year die out, — 
We await the brighter morn, — 
Let the fair, new year be born ! ' 
Well-a-day, 

Thus the world will say ! ' ' 

III 

"Old year get thee gone, and hush this sorry 
madness ; 

Know it is not time for aught but purest glad- 
ness ! ' ' 

Thus I spoke unto the soon departing year, 

That lay moaning, groaning, lingering useless 
here; 

Then unto the night-guard: "Watchman, ho! 
what of the night? — 

Hark ! the new year 's hand is on time 's knocker 
now: 



THE MEETING OF TEE YEARS 41 

Speed the doom of darkness — hail the dawn- 
ing light!" 

Then the night-guard, shivering in the dampness, 
cried aloud — 

Shaking off from shoulders and from breast his 
snowy shroud: 

' ' Ho ! from your steeples, 
Ring, mournful bells, the old year out, 
Ring, joyous bells, the new year in ; — 
Ring, ring, ring! 

' ' Ring out your pain, 

Your wars, your hates; 
Ring in your joy, — 
A nation waits; — 

Ring, ring, ring! 

"Ring out the fraud, 

Ring out the guile ; 
Ring out the false 

And all that's vile; — 
Ring, ring, ring! 



42 FOBEST AND TOWN 

''Ring out for man, 

For brotherhood; 
Ring out the bad, 

Ring in the good ; — 
Ring, ring, ring! 

"Your echoes roll 

Loud through the snow, 
Proclaiming love 

And peace below ; — 
Ring, ring, ring!' 

Ill 

SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR 

The new year's born, 
The old, old year is dead; 

The new year's born, 
Our cares and sorrows fled. 

Our hopes are bright, 
Our hearts are light, 
We sing the new-born year ! 



TEE MEETING OF TEE YEARS 43 

'Tis glad, 'tis new, 
Oh may't be true; 
We sing the new-born year! 

Yea, while we may, 

Let ns be gay, 
And sing the new-born year! 

Yea, while we may, 
We '11 sing the new-born year ! 

(December, 1869.) 



THE BLUE BIRD 

The blue bird carries the sky on his back. — Thoreau. 

Bird of the light wing, 

Bird of the brown breast, 
Herald of earth's spring! 

First of the minstrels 

Out of the cloud-west, 
Joy do thy notes bring 

Hearts that are winter 'd; 

Softly of green grass, 
Brooks gently murm'ring, 

Trees with green branches 
In the wind swaying, 

Shade and sweet air, thou 
Merrily dost sing, 
Bird of the blue wing. 

Bird of the light wing, 
Welcome thou 'rt ever ; 



TEE BLUE BIBB 45 

Flowers rebudding, 

Nature renaissant, 
Thunder storms, lightning — 

Terrible, mystic; 
Rain, and drops patt'ring 

Here on my window; 

These, the glad tidings 
Yearly thou dost bring, 
Bird of the blue wing. 

Bird of the light wing, 

Master of sweet lays 
Ever beguiling, 

Turnest thou sorrow 
Into glad smiling, — 

"Joy and oblivion," 
Ever a-singing; 

Blessings attend thee, 

Nomad of ether, 
Bird of the blue wing, 
Minstrel of green spring! 



46 FOBEST AND TOWN 

Bird of the light wing, 
Bird of the brown breast, 

Linger long near us, 
Here build thy frail nest . 

Vain is the wish, vain, 

Lo! he has flown past 
Gone to the cloud-west, 

Ere winter's cold star 
Sank to its year-rest. 

Then, to thee, good-by, 
Herald of earth's spring, 
Bird of the blue wing ! 

(October 8, 1867.) 



THE SONG OF IXUS 

From the French of Hegesippe Moreau* 

I 

Open ! I am Ixus the poor mistletoe of oak that 
a gust of wind would kill. 

One day, twelve years ago, a pigmy dropped 
from the lion-skin of Hercules. That 
pigmy it was I. 

My father loved me not because I was small and 
weak. Whilst a child, when I threw 
myself at his knees, I heard above my 
head a voice angry as the storm. 

My brothers beat me when I called them aloud 
my brothers. Still, I want to live, for 
I have a sister — a sister who loves me. 

She is so good, Macaria ! 

Open ! I am Ixus the poor mistletoe of oak that 
a gust of wind would kill. 



48 FOREST AND TOWN 

II 

My brothers said to me, one day : 

"Be good at something. Learn to rear statues 
and altars, for we will be gods, per- 
haps!" 

I tried to obey my brothers, but the chisel and 
the hammer were very heavy ! 

Besides, strange visions and unending, ever and 
ever passed between me and the Parian 
block, and my distracted fingers wrote 
in the dust a name — always the same : 

The soft name of Macaria ! 

Open ! I am Ixus the poor mistletoe of oak that 
a gust of wind would kill. 

Ill 

My brothers then said to me: 

"We have a guest in the palace, a white-haired 

elder of Chaldea who reads in the sky 

things to come. 
Heed well his lessons and tell us if you see in 

the clouds, for us, coming treasures or 



THE SONG OF IXUS 49 

coming victories." 

I listened to the elder. 

I passed long and serene nights in contemplation 
of the heavens, but I saw neither treas- 
ures nor victories. 

I saw only stars, bright and moist, that looked 
down on me with love, like the eyes of 
Macaria ! 

Open ! I am Ixus the poor mistletoe of oak that 
a gust of wind would kill. 

IV 

My brothers then said to me : 

' ' Take a bow and arrows and hunt in the 
woods. ' ' 

And I hunted in the woods with a bow and ar- 
rows; but I soon forgot the chase and 
my brothers. 

While I listened to the singing of the winds and 
the nightingales, a hind ate the bread 
in my robe, and a little bird, tired by a 
long flight, lit in my quiver and went 
to sleep. 



50 FOREST AND TOWN 

I brought it to Macaria. 

Open ! I am Ixus the poor mistletoe of oak that 
a gust of wind would kill. 



My brothers then said to me: 

"You are good at nothing," and they beat me; 
but I did not cry because I was think- 
ing of my sister. 

To-morrow she will be taken away from me. 

To-morrow, when Macaria seated at the bridal 
banquet, will say : 

"What is that blue smoke that arises from be- 
hind that forest of laurels?" 

"Oh, it is nothing," the guests will answer. 

It will be the funeral pile of Ixus the poor mis- 
tletoe of oak that a gust of wind will 
have killed. 

(January, 1867.) 



* Hegesippe Moreau was born in Paris in 1810. He 
had the misfortune of losing his parents at an early age 
and was brought up in Provins, by charity. At eighteen 
years of age he returned to Paris, where he died in 1838, 



THE SONG OF IXUS 51 

at the age of twenty-eight, from the effects of dissipa- 
tion. During his checkered life he successfully filled the 
positions of school-master, proof-reader, editor, etc. 

As a poet, he was one of the most promising France 
has produced. He was equally happy in song, elegy, or 
satire. His style was often bold and strongly original. 
Probably no authors of the past, except Ossian and 
Fenelon (the author of "The Adventures of Telema- 
chus") can lay claim to a more graceful and remarkable 
originality. 

Moreau left us three works: " Les Myosotis," "Dio- 
gene," and "Contes a ma Soeur." In 1873 they were 
reprinted by Michel Levy, freres, in an ordinary sized 
volume of 276 pages. " Contes a ma Soeur" is a small 
volume of short stories (60-odd pages) ; from one of 
these, "Le Gui de Chene" ("The Mistletoe of Oak") I 
translate ' ' The Song of Ixus ' ' — with the text of which 
I confess to have taken great liberties. There is no 
English translation of any of Moreau 's works. 



FOREST AND TOWN 
LOVE 



THE ONE FAIR WOMAN 

I 

In halcyon days ere manhood set 
Its royal signet on my brow, 
We met at Wildwood. In the first 
Sweet blush of budding womanhood wert thou. 

That autumn day with fate deep laden, 
My heart keeps well its record yet : 
Lo ! lo ! a love is born to thee 
Which time can never teach thee to forget ! 

Six years ago ! You loved me then ; 

Your soul answered mine sigh for sigh ; 
Scarcely apart our young lives grew; 
You met my kiss with love in lip and eye. 

To-day, that possible, fair truth, 



56 FOBEST AND TOWN 

Like some unworthy thing you've 
spurned, — 
Start not, I know you better, now ; 
How beauty chills the heart of hope, I've learned. 

Ah well, we've changed! Six years ago 
Thou wast a plain and simple maid ; 
I, in the garb of plenteousness, 

Full scorning rank and wealth that 
fade; 
White hands are now my all, while thou 
Art rich in velvet, pride, and rare brocade. 

Ah, fool, I once dream 't our love sweet, 

But now I know 'twixt soul and soul 
Great worlds of silence, deep and dark, 
And freighted down with pride and flattery, roll ! 

II 

A failure is this life of mine — 

A fevered day, a haunted night, 
A vast and endless yearning for 



THE ONE FAIR WOMAN 57 

Dead things, a doomed soul groping for God's 
light. 

I know ere manhood's grander years, 
I will be with the things that were, 

And from my grave my name will rise — 
Dissolve as a breath of passing air; 
Perhaps you understand, I dare 

Not breathe the bitter word, — love, 
I only know and think that you are fair ! 

Yet, yet, vain tears! — life's darkest days 

Are pass'd, for deepest far and worst 
The wound that's dealt in earliest years. 
Well, after love, ambition comes. 

soul, what matters that the first 
Is dead? — still lives fame's olden 
thirst, 
And unto him of iron will 
That creed 's a lie that holds a life 's accursed ! 

So hence, fair face, my titan soul, 



58 FOBEST AND TOWN 

Blots out all sense of past defeat. 
An earnest life is born to-day, — 

Of great endeavors full, complete. 

What matters that one woman's sweet? 
Self-confident, henceforth my way 

Lies clear and possible; I'll live 
To labor and to learn — to cheat 

The past of all its bitterness, 
And force the mad world's homage to my feet! 

(1873.) 



ATHLEEN: A PORTRAIT 

Only this and nothing more! — Poe. 

Athleen! Dark, raven curls and oval face; 
Mouth perfect, chiselled with art's subtlest grace ; 
Expression sadly' sweet and ever winning; 

Eyes large and lustrous, of deep black, 
Full of kind tenderness and lovely sinning, 

And form in beauty 's rules that does not lack. 

Hand small and round ; not white but olive 

brown, 
Warm, soft to touch as softest eider down ; 
Lips red and ripe, the throne of sweetest smiles ; 
Foot arched, in length and width but a mere 

child's; 
Not great in stature, nor hence passing small ; 
But graceful, queenly, just as loving tall 
As Rosalind, whose height the Master wrought 



60 FOREST AND TOWN 

So cunningly with happy, deathless thought.* 

Not poor, nor therefore over-rich ; and yet, 
I would not have her richer. A brunette 

With sturdy health, and good and sweet, and 
so, 
Well-fit to love and cherish, spoil and pet ; 
Not wise and learned, but well-versed and read 

In what becomes her gentle sex to know ; 
A mind not made for praise, — instead 

A heart to soothe and love, in pain and woe; 
A woman not to speak knowingly, loud, 
But quiet, meek, unnoticed in the crowd. 

They tell me love has blinded up mine eyes, 
That I can marry richer and more wise — 
A pedigree that reaches to the skies; 
But I am satisfied; I seek for rest 

And peace ; a home where love will reign 
alway ; 



Jaques: What stature is she of? 
Orlando: Just as high as my heart. 

— Shakespeare's "As You Like It." 



ATHLEEN: A PORTRAIT 61 



I want no shrew, no goddess of a day, 
Nor angel — but a woman at the best ! 

(September, 1873.) 



THE FACE AT THE WINDOW 



'Twas only for a minute, 
Adown the street in passing, 
I saw it at the window, 

A pensive face and fair ; 
Between two silken curtains — 
A face and long hair falling 
In showers silken, golden, 

On shoulders white and bare. 

A white hand small and slender, 
Apart the curtains holding, 
And on a taper finger 

A rare and costly ring ; 
A pair of blue eyes, tender 
As any Eastern houri's, 
As any Christian beauty's, 

And full of questioning. 



THE FACE AT THE WINDOW 63 

Within, a taper burning, 
Cast tints of red and yellow 
Alternate on the window, 

With mingled rays of white ; 
Without, a dreamy stillness — 
No footsteps on the pavement, 
No hum of busy traffic, 
Awoke with ghostly echoes 

The silence of the night. 

II. 

My footsteps harshly sounding, 
She started half-affrighted, 
And caught my eager glances 

Full on her form and face ; 
A moment half-unconscious — 
A blush — a backward motion — 
And then the curtains closing, 

Resumed their wonted place. 

Aye draw the silken curtains, 
Shut out the glorious vision, 



64 FOREST AND TOWN 

fair and blushing maiden, 

Rare type of womanhood! 
My soul is steeped in misery, 
My heart is sad and suffering, 
Mine eyes are far too vulgar 
To gaze on thee, maiden, 

So pure, so fair, so good! 

Aye draw the silken curtains ! 

1 live in outward darkness, 
And when an inward warmness 
Springs up, divine as glorious, 

'Midst depths of sin and stain, 
'Tis only for a minute 
My soul feasts on the vision, 
And then joy's silken curtains 
Are closely drawn together, 

And darkness reigns again! 

III. 

'Twas only a glance in passing, 
A glance of scarce a minute, 



THE FACE AT THE WINDOW 65 

And yet the night grew pleasant, 
And all the long way homeward 

Seemed shorter for that face. 
Ah, fair one at the window, 
Into my life a something 
Crept unpereeived, unchallenged — 
A something when I saw thee, 

That had before no place. 

A something wild, indefinite, 

An eager, restless longing 

To hold thee and possess thee, 

With all thy peerless grace; 
But well I know 'tis useless, 
A wreck of cruel ambition, 
An exile lingering, weary, 
I can but wait the ending, 

The last of my proud race ! 

(New Orleans, February 27, 1874.) 



FAREWELL ! FAREWELL ! 

So, you have said it! You have said the fatal 

word ! 
One possible answer only you have left to me, — 
One word to utter faintly with an aching heart, 
One sigh of agony, one sob of inward pain, — 
And all my youth, and all my hopes go out with 

it: 

"Farewell!" "Farewell!" 

Farewell unto the brief, delusive happiness ! 
Farewell unto the smiling faith and trust 
That in my heart were re-awakening again ! 
Farewell unto the wish for life's extension 
That crept like a slow and unwelcome shadow 

'cross 
The fell, fixed purpose for the peace of death ! 
"Farewell!" "Farewell!" 

Oh, if in all the life to come to you — 



F ABE WELL! FAREWELL! 67 

Years in of happiness, years out of pain and 

tears — 
You're ever loved again as I loved you, 
You're ever shielded, dear, from harm or taint 
As I have shielded you ; you 're ever led 
To nobler purposes and aims than I 've led you, — 
I shall be well content ; I shall be glad for you. 

But as for me, it matters not henceforth. 
I have learned to accept my life as God has 

willed, 
To utter no complaint, to lag noways along the 

path; 
Believe me, or believe me not, when -I do say, 
That e'en in this great throe of pain, called life, 
I find a holy rapture linked with each despair 
Well worth the price of anguish ; lo ! I 've grown 
Accustomed to the galling of my chains, 
I've ceased to hurl my white and naked soul 
Against the cruel, lacerating bars of fate 
In mad and impotent rebellion ; so, 
Resigned, I smile and patiently await 
The Heavenly Father's own appointed time. 



A HUMAN CRY.* 

I have summed it all up to-day: 
The little joy, the smaller triumphs, 
The flattered vanity of an idle hour, — 
The pain, the sorrow, the suffering and the boot- 
less labor, 
The soul's bitter struggle against itself, 
The narrow and loveless path that duty has 

trod, — 
I have balanced them long and well ; 
I am weary of the weight of the cross ; 
Within the fold of the calm peace of utter despair, 
I feel that I am so much the debtor of misery, 
So little, so little the debtor of happiness, 
That I dare not think of it all ! 

I ask now only for peace, for rest; 
Power, glory, fame — aye, even happiness, 
What are they all to me now ? 



A HUMAN CRY 60 

Too late, too late ! The last chord of hope is 

broken ; 
Endless empires, countless millions, could not 

tempt me now ! 
Go your ways, go in confidence 
And trust the world and man, if so you will, 
But give me peace, give me rest ! 

Sof tly ! softly ! . . . "Peace?"— "Rest?' '. . . . 
Would I be satisfied with peace and rest to-day? 
Do I but try to deceive myself? 
Do I but knowingly lie to my soul when I say 

this? 
Is it the calm, quiet suspension of existence — 
The slumber of the soul, the deadness of the 

heart, 
That would fill the measure of life for me to 

day? 

No, no — a thousand noes ! 

This world's mask has grown so deep into my 

soul 
That I lie even to myself — 
I lie where 'vantage lies in a lie ! 



70 FOEEST AND TOWN 

"Peace!"— "Rest!" 

The stupid, pulseless, nameless things ! 

The patronizing smile of heaven after the devast- 

ing storm! 
There is no heaven in my burning blood, — 
I ache for the crash of the thunder, 
The blinding flash of the red lightning ! 
Away! away with the wet fingers of the white 

rain 
That cool my burning blood ! — 
It is the hell within me that leaps to my brain — 
The spirit of rebellion that burns within me 
And cries out for utterance to-day ! 
It is the man — the natural man 
Who has weighed your creeds and found them 

wanting, 
Who has tried your civilization and found it a 

failure, 
Who has tested your codes of life and found 

them brutal, — 
It is the man, the frank, the fearless man 
Who has lived your lie, 
Who has cheated with your honesty, 



A HUMAN CRT 71 

Who has flattered with your hypocrisy 
Through forty long and false years, — 
Behold him — he tears the mask from his face 

to-day ! 
He defies you in open rebellion — 
He cries to you: "Listen, listen! I am supreme 

to-day ! 
I hate you ! I despise you ! 
You shall hear me before I die ! ' ' 

How I hate this pulseless, bloodless life ! 

These women with their meaningless prattle of 

virtue ! 
These men with lies on their lips and souls, 
And a hell in their hearts ! 
This daily round of small doings, 
This sum of wearisome repetitions, 
This stagnation of brain and heart and soul ! 

for one outburst of deathless song — 
One glorious line of the fire within! 
One agonizing cry of hate and despair ! : 

One supreme hour of ecstatic passion ! 



72 FOEEST AND TOWN 

One vast day of perfect happiness ! 

And then — and then — if need be so, 

The everlasting silence of the grave, the grave! 

I am not a poet, — 

I cannot weave this thought in rhyme, 
I can only say that I feel it — I feel it ! 
It burns my soul with an unquenchable fire — 
This yearning for life — to live if only for a per- 
fect hour ! — 
It is here but I cannot speak it, 
I cannot write it — 

I am simply dumb in this aching agony! 
I am tired of this puny existence, 
I am weary of these galling chains — 
Of this intense and consuming respectability ! 
My soul is torn by this constant strain, 
This struggle to be what I am not ! 

love, love, come to me now ! 

Come in a whirl of hot passion — 

Come to my arms with a cry of mad triumph — 

You have won ! You have won ! 



A HUMAN CRY 73 

Come when my brain is on fire ! 

1 have loved you — I have held you from me ; 

J have loved you — I have pushed you away ; 

I have spared you for your own sake ! 

I have torn my soul in the terrible struggle ; 

I am tired of this bootless battle — 

This self-immolation for a word, an idea; 

All my days are bitter for it, 

All my nights are full of pain and fever, — 

I am faint and tottering with it all ! 

Come to me, love ! come to me ! 

Not softly pleading as heretofore, — 

Come to me madly, triumphantly — question not, 

ask not ! 
Spring to my arms and hold me close — 
Tie me with your arms lest my purpose waver, 
Let me feel your soft breasts quivering against 

me, 

Let me feel your hot lips burning mine 

You have conquered ! You have conquered ! 

Come to me, love ! Come to me, love ! 



74 FOEEST AND TOWN 

One supreme hour of happiness — and all is 

done: 
Dead all the long years of honor — 
All the pain I have suffered for honor's sake; 
The fair, the stainless name I have borne 
Through all these years of desolate weariness ; 
The sweet, fair faith all pure women held in 

me 

Dead, dead, polluted for one supreme hour of 

happiness ! 



What does it all mean ? 

Do I but rave? Am I mad? 

Am I madder than the vile world? 

Will the world scoff at me — deny me now ? 

Do men hide these things and cry honor 1 

Do women mask their hearts and cry virtue "' 

Am I worse, or better than the world ? 

Am I honest, and all men liars ? 

Is life only a thing of dollars and cents — 

Of deceit and treachery and low cunning ? 

Or is it a trick of rouge and dye and subtle art — 



A HUMAN CRY 75 

Of idleness, and vanity, and soul and body bar- 
gaining ? 

I know not — I care not ! I have passed my 

soul's rubicon! 
I only cry out with outstretched arms: 

love ! love ! come to me now ! 

1 am tired, I am weary of all things and the 
world ; 

Only you, love, only you I want — 

Only you can fill the measure of my life ! 

My blood is burning in my veins, 

My brain is in a whirl 

Come to me, love ! . . . . one vast day of happi- 
ness — 

One supreme hour of defiant freedom — 

One passion hour of perfect life — 

One hour to live — to live! 

Then good night ! — good-bye ! — rest — peace — 
forevermore ! 

(May 22, 1890.) 



A Human Cry" was written to picture the restless, 



76 FOEEST AND TOWN 

defiant, rebellious, cynical spirit of the age. It unmasks 
a human soul : the soul of the man who has grown sick of 
conventionalities, of unmerited successes, of virtue unre- 
warded and vice triumphant, of a society in which mere 
money rules, of deceit in daily life, dishonesty in state, 
hypocrisy in religion, selfishness, egotism, vanity, — in a 
word, of the brutal man and the unsexed woman. "A 
Human Cry" is simply a page of human nature. It is 
offered as a character study and not as a plea in exten- 
uation. 



FOREST AND TOWN 



FRIENDSHIP 



MY LAST AND ONLY FRIEND 

And should we quarrel thus, Athlene ? And must 
We part, we who in this world are mere passers- 

by, 

Because it suited others jealous of our trust, 
To call my utter faith in thee a lie ? 

I thought I 'd found at last one who could believe 

In me ; but words and faces will deceive. 

"Let us join hands and bridge the years with 
friendship, ' ' this, 

Two years ago, at Ellesmere, I said, 

And you, "Amen!" — and so, well-satisfied, we 
sealed 

The fair, sweet promise with a trusting kiss. 

What hath the pregnant years since then 
revealed ? 

The happiness of bitter tears unshed? 

A sacred trust by equal trust and warmth well- 
fed? 



80 FOMEST AND TOWN 

Ah, no, the creeping years grew weary, old, 
Their gentle promises grew dim and cold, 
And I have made their graves deep in my heart, 
And on their tombstones written: My wish for 
life is dead ! 

Athleen, I long had fondly hoped to go — 
The last of my proud race — unto my early 

grave, — 
Rest side by side with her near Alvinn's wave, 
From this dead life of nothingness and woe, 
By one at least, not blamed, but understood ; 
Defiant, proud, and scorning well unto the last 
That mad, huge mass of pride, hypocrisy and 

crime, 
The unrelenting world that knew me not, yet 

could 
Have known. But even this cannot be so ; 
Hence I am doomed beyond all hope, all 

time! . . . 
Ah well, what mattereth it to me or you ? 
What mattereth it, Athleen, if all 1 du 



MY LAST AND ONLY FRIEND 81 

Will have no just interpreter to read aright. 
But will remain for aye misunderstood? 
I care not I ; the world 's relentless hate 
Has taught me self-reliance and the strength 
That's born of conscious right. I know the bit- 
ter length 
Of lives like mine, and too, I know their common 
fate. 

I say I care not, I. My soul holds not a fear 
For breath of poisoned tongues that lick me in 

the light, 
Then sting me in the dark with fell, dead lies ! 
If pity and too many an abhorring sneer 
Became my face better than smiles and glad 

content, — 
If I have lived a life replete with pain and sighs, 
The world has willed it so, not I. I went 
My way with hate and malice unto none, 
And kindness for all things beneath the sun ; 
My crime 't was that my longing soul could not 

but rise 



82 FOBEST AND TOWN 

Above the utter littleness of life, and feel 
The worthlessness of all that man set heart 
Or soul upon : that there is no such thing as leal, 
Undying love or happiness, complete or part 
And parcel of our earthly lives. That gold and 

lust 
Are pleasures of a minute ; that high fame 
Is but the melancholy blazon on a grave 
That soon time 's envious and corrosive rust 
Will cov 'r — the puny struggle 'gainst the first- 
come wave 
Of the sand-written name, its life ! — the dust 
Of jarring spheres in few years will obliterate, 
Make dead, forgotten as my name and love and 

hate ; 
That great ambition is another name 
For tears and wasted lives of anguish and of 

pain; 
That hopes are small ambitions ill-disguised ; 
And deeming thus that all our lives are empty 

vain, 
And hold but one fixed purpose — th ' inborn 
restless greed, 



MY LAST AND ONLY FRIEND 83 

And avaricious struggle after gain, 

It is not strange that I grew affranchised 

From the weak laws that bind the world, nor 

that so freed, 
And living on without a fear, a confidence, 
A hope in anything mundane, that I 
Should not have feared to dare the unknown 

hence — 
Should not have cared to live, nor feared to die. 

Athleen, my last, my only friend, I often think 
In these dark days and solemn nights, of thee 
And of the frail and full-soon broken link 
That bound thy so-called friendship unto me ; 
And then, my heart grows sad and closed, and 

days and weeks, 
And even months, unprontably come and go 
And leave only these tears upon my cheeks, 
And in my heart this anguish and this sense of 

woe! 
I sometimes wish that we were reconciled, 
For you have judged me wrongly ; time will 

show 



84 FOBEST AND TOWN 

My friendship was the utter trust of a guileless 

child. 
I fain would even speak to thee and prove 
My faith is even yet pure, undefined, 
But pride has sealed my lips! I dare not move 

Them for it Well I know it is the lot 

Of some to suffer in this world, to live 

And so to end, with their fair names stained by 

some blot 
That's foreign to their character. Of such am I. 
I have lost that which man to man but once 

doth give, 
A reputation for fair dealings in all things 
Good deeds, a moral life ; no fault of mine 

gave wings 
To poisoned words whose venom rankles and yet 

stings ; 
No fault, or deed of mine, I say, did this, 
Hence merited thy friendship's Judas kiss. 

I have believed and loved the world, but it has 
not 



MY LAST AND ONLY FEIEND 85 

Loved me, — nor do I ask it now. The trust I 

brought 
In earlier years has turned to gall. I hate the lie 
Upon its perjured lips ; the cold hypocrisy 
And pride within its heart ; and from my hate 
Grew out that blasphemy that sealed my fate, 
That crushed me in your heart, thus severing the 

frail hold 
That bound me to this life. It turned chill into 

cold, 
And dislike into bitter hate. A sad, dead blow, 
All unexpected, therefore sadder still, — for, lo ! 
I trusted so much that I deemed that yon 
Had read my longing heart aright, hence knew 
Me as I was ; and so, I could not believe 
That you would even for a moment trust 
The idle tongues that trailed me in the dust, 
Whose every breath was cruelly spent to weave 
Around your unschooled heart a bitter snare 
Well-worthy of the master fiends of hell. 
A sad, dead blow, I say, and when it fell 
I even wished that I were dead (may heaven 

keep 



86 FOBEST AND TOWN 

Such future thoughts from me ! ) , well-dead and 

buried deep 
In the world hence, and had died with the little 

trust 
In human nature still my own, left fair, 
Untouched, and so unlevelled with the dust. 

Athleen, as I look in thy face for the last time, 
Through these hot tears I bid thee and my own 
- fair clime 

A silent, sad farewell ; ere we do part to meet 
Oh nevermore on earth, — perchance the words 

are sweet 
To thine ear now that thou hast learned to hate 
One whose fair truth deserved a better fate 
In things both great and small, yet never met 

with such, — ■ 
I say, hate as you will, yet ere we part, 
Let one fair truth be said, — to you it is not 

much, 
Yet it will ease one weary, aching heart : 
maid, thou whom I thought a friend — (a 

friend — 



MY LAST AND ONLY FBIEND 87 

I pray that pitying heaven in my weakness send 

One nevermore on earth tome!) — 

My latest hope, my last, my only friend, 

And whom, perchance, in unborn, grander years 

I might have learned to love both long and well, 

Know that within its shroud of sighs and tears, 

My heart hath no reproach, nor blame, for thee ; 

I only say I am content to wait 

A little longer yet, for soon or late, 

God's justice will be done. I care not now 

For aching heart, gray hairs, or wrinkled brow ; 

I murmur no word here against my bitter fate ; 

All will be known and righted there above ; 

Our mortal hearts will be laid bare and tell 

Their own sad tales of persecution, hate, 

Unequal friendship, unrequited love, 

Of fair resolve and weariness, and blighted hope 

That holdeth mercy for no thing within its scope, 

Of boothless struggles after happiness, of woe 

And pain, and all that's worth the knowing, — 

and so, 
Till then I sigh and only say, ' ' Farewell ! ' ' 

(1873.) 



FADING BEAUTY 

I mourn, sweet maid, 
That beauty such as thine must fade, — 
That time's relentless march must be defrayed 
From perfect cheeks of roseate tinge ; 
That eyes of vaulted heaven 's hue — 
Of soul-deep, glorious Saxon blue, 
So calm and gentle 'neath their golden fringe, 
Must lose their softest, sweetest light; 
Yet, yet, I know that all that's bright 
Sometime, somewhere, must dim and fade, 
For such a bitter end our lives were made. 

I mourn, sweet maid, 
That beauty such as thine must fade ; 
Ah, doubly so that it is fading now, 
Ere one-third of life V envious shade 
Has fallen athwart thy classic brow; 
That thou art withering like the ivy left 



FADING BEAUTY 89 

Prostrate and passive on the ground, 
Without a shape to twine its tendrils 'round, 
By some rude, howling storm bereft 
Of all it clung to, and of all 
That made its life a something ; yet 
With tender care the ivy may forget 
Its nothingness, and find a generous wall 
For utter helpfulness more firm and true, 
To cling to and breathe life anew. 

I mourn, sweet maid, 
That beauty such as thine must fade. 
Oh call the hope we breathe, if so you will, 
A poison subtle, deadly as 'tis sweet, 
And age the slayer of our dreams 
Who darkens on our path the heavenly gleams 
That guide and cheer our weak, uncertain feet; 
And time a fiend that wantonly doth kill 
The little that we cling to 'neath the sun — 
The love of something, or, of some dear one, 
The longing for far vaster, grander years 
And better things we live and hope for; still 



90 FOREST AND TOWN 

Amid our sighs and pain and tears, 
And all the sorrows of the passing hour, 
We should look forward, 'yond the present's 

power, 
Think there's a future with a better life — 
More love and peace, and not a wish for strife 
For gain or fame, for us if so we will ; 
And thinking thus, we will take heart, 
And thereat better act our daily part. 

I mourn, sweet maid, 
That beauty such as thine must fade. 
Take heart, cast off this passiveness, this weak 
Desire and longing after death; thy cheek 
Is pale and hollow with the tears and pain 
That sore and waste thy life in vain ; 
Thine eyes are sad and heavy, and thy form 
Is wasting fast. Take heart, sweet one, 
What though the angry curbless storm 
Is raging wild and pitiless to-day, 
And hides the azure realms of perfect skies, 
Ah who with exact eye can tell 



FADING BEAUTY 91 

Time 's fickle changes here ? or who dare say, 

Well-certain, that God's all-encircling sun 

The brighter for it will not 'rise 

To-morrow, and with kindly rays dispel 

The blighting clouds? Look up, my friend, be 

strong, 
These darknesses are not for long; 
Live till to-morrow, all will then be well ! 

(June, 1872.) 



FOREST AND TOWN 



DEATH 



WHEN I'M DEAD AND BURIED, LOVE! 

When I'm dead and buried, love, 
And the oaks of Calv'ry wave 
O'er a tomb my soul doth crave, 
Looking down upon my grave, 

You will say with saddened mien : 
"He was true to me, 
He was good to me, ' ' — 

When I 'm dead and buried, love ! 

When I'm dead and buried, love, 
You will think of what hath been 
And can never be again ; 
Of the loves of other men, 

And of me, then you will say : 
"He was just and brave, 
Wept, but spake no word," — 

When I 'm dead and buried, love ! 



96 FOEEST AND TOWN 

When I'm dead and buried, love, 
On the world will move the same, 
Soon will be forgot my name — 
Dead its little meed of fame ; 

Then methinks that you will say : 
"He was great to me, 
He was wise to me," — ■ 

When I 'm dead and buried, love ! 

When I'm dead and buried, love, 
Well at peace and well at rest, 
Be thy thoughts or worst or best, 
May no sigh heave up thy breast, 

No reproach cause thee to say: 
"Ah, he loved me well, 
Better than I knew ! ' ' — 

When I 'm dead and buried, love ! 

When I'm dead and buried, love, 
All my faults will be forgot, 
Buried well with me, I wot, 
Part and parcel of my lot ; 



WHEN I'M DEAD AND BURIED, LOVE! 97 

Then you '11 shake your head and say : 
"Ah, we knew him not, 
Gone, we know his worth ! ' ' — 

When I 'm dead and buried, love ! 

(1874.) 



ROSALIE 

I sang in the joyous spring: 

She is fair as fair can be, 
And pure and good and true as fair, 

Is my young love Rosalie ! 

I smiled in the languid summer: 
The months they come and go, 

And soon the bells will ring for us 
Who'll plight our troth below. 

I sighed in the frosty autumn : 

Her heart is sore with pain ; 
The leaves that are brown and sere to-day, 

Will never bud again! 

I moaned in the icy winter : 
My love, my Rosalie ! 



ROSALIE 99 

The bells of death are tolling for her, 
And the world 's a tomb to me ! 

(September, 1871.) 



UNDER THE ROSES 

Four miles from where the city spans the rivulet, 
The village strides the dusty country road that 
lies 
Like a gray ribbon spread in careless haste 
Across a cloth of shining green. 
There in the lonely churchyard, pensive, sad, 
In idle mood I wandered yesterday, 
Half-envious and rebellious that I'm so obscure 
That death has passed me by all these long, care- 
less years, 
And as I stooped and read on a rude, wooden 

slab 
The simple words that told that one — a gentle 

maid — 
Had early laid down life's drear burden, and 
gone forth 
To seek eternal rest and peace beyond, 
A villager full of deep sympathy, 



UNDER TEE EOSES 101 

Told sadly and with tear-drops in his eyes, 
The story of her short and suffering life. 
Here I repeat the tale as it dwells on my mind. 

I. 

Under the roses he whispered something — 

Under the roses two years ago, 
And my cheeks turned crimson red 

With honest shame, my head hung low, 
And my eyes grew dim with very joy, — 

Under the roses, two years ago! 

Under the roses he said, ' ' Farewell ! ' ' — 

Under the roses white as snow, 
And that he was poor, but young and strong, 

And would ever love me, come weal, come woe ; 
Soon he was going to a distant city 

Where gold is plenty as the waters that flow- 
Through our native village, and toil for me ; 

Full soon he'd come back with wealth, and so 
I 'd live like a lady the rest of my life. 

? Twas this that he whispered low 



102 FOREST AND TOWN 

As he said "Farewell!" that summer day, 
Under the roses, two years ago. 

II. 

Under the roses red and white — 

Under the roses, one year ago, 
They said that he loved a maid of the city 

(But I would not believe 't was so !) 
Her eyes were bluer than mine, 

And her face and her hands were white as snow, 
And she had wealth, and was handsomer than I ; 

But I thought of what he had whispered low, 
And I shook my head, and I smiled at their words, 

Under the roses, one year ago. 

III. 

Under the roses red and white — 

Under the roses white as snow; 
She looked as fair as they said she was, 

With her golden hair and her cheeks aglow, 
And he seemed so happy and proud of her 

That I hate her beauty, — aye, Ada Lerowe, 



UNDER TEE EOSES 103 



I hate you as only a woman can hate ! . . . . 

But love or hate, I would like to know, 
What matters it to him to-day? 

He laughs and says it can never be so — 
'Twas a childish whim outgrown, that love 

Under the roses two years ago ! 

Under the roses my heart is buried, 

Under the roses of two years ago, 
And I wish that I were buried too ! 

Ah well, I'll hide the pain, the woe, 
That fills my life with a wish for death, 

I'll dry these tears and smile as I go, 
And the world will think that I 'm happy still ; 

But when again the drifting snow 
Will fall, it will be on my lonely grave 

Under the roses — and below ! 

IV. 

Under the roses red and white — 

Under the roses one year ago, 
They made her a grave as her heart had told, 



104 FOEEST AND TOWN 

But no one knew of the pain, the woe 
That had filled her life and wrecked it soon, 

And he cares not to know ; 
But a specter is ever at his door, 

And something in his heart, I trow, 
That whispers oft' of his pledge to her 

Under the roses three years ago! 

(1872.) 



IMPLORA PACE! 

So weary, tired of things that were, of things 

that are, 
But bearing meekly on a bent and aching back 
The weight that God has put ; not bad in heart, 

but weak 
In purpose, chanceling through a careless sense 

of life; 
Not hating man so much, but loving nature more ; 
And so adown the desolate years I sadly creep, 
Not caring what doth come, or may, or how, to 

me, 
Nor when the silent, dreadless end may be, nor 

what, 
But saying only this, "Implora Pace on 
This earth ! Implora Pace in the world of 

hence ! ' ' 

(1880.) 



FOREST AND TOWN 



MISCELLANEOUS 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
1811-1863 

Oh cynic, this one truth confess — 
If Socrates is wrong, and aught 

We know, but that we. nothing know, 
As he long years agone has taught : — 

Confess that life is not all sadness, 
But that, at times, creeps in a day 
Wherein our hearts grow light and gay, — 

A glimpse of heaven through gates ajar, 
A memory vast, this, for alway ! 

God bless the master hand that grants 
These holihours of now and then ! 

Content, inspires us to take up 
Life's weary burden once again; 

God bless, I say, the hand that wakes 

Our nobler sentiments, and makes 



110 FOBEST AND TOWN 

The blush of shame deep tinge our cheeks 

At all the baseness in our hate 
Of others, the low selfishness, 

Weak vanity, or pride innate 
Within our hearts ! . . . . 

I close the book - 

The lesson 's learned : deep down my soul, 
With penitential eyes I look ! 

God bless thee, thou great cynic ! Though 

Thy brain is stilled, thy race is run, 
The world is better thou hast lived 

By all the noble work thou 'st done ! 
The centuries weave thee a wreath — 

More fadeless, victors few have won! 
Tom Newcome, Esmond, Becky Sharp, 

Time's corridors their footsteps wake; 
Let critics sneer, let critics carp, 
Thy pen is fame's, thy words are truth's, 

Thy lessons are of man and right; 
Thy glory is not ours, nor yet 

Great England 's, but the world 's ; thy light 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 311 

Is Shakespeare's, Bacon's, Fielding's, — till 
The tired world will sigh : ' ' Good night ! ' ' 

(1887.) 



THE SADDEST WORDS 

A poet growing old and gray 

In years, and just men's praise of song 
That batter 'd the door of a great wrong, 

This lesson rhymed of life, one day: 
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
The saddest are these : 'It might have been ! ' : 

A school boy read the lines as task; 

Deep-hid their sense to his young mind; 
He scanned them long, as if to ask 

Them self -solution, and so to find 

Their hidden sense 

In after years, 
He learned the weight of unshed tears ! 

Whittier, thy New England earth, 
Long years thy ashes consecrate; 
The boy's grown bent and gray; the worth 



TEE SADDEST WORDS 113 

Of lives like thine he learned too late! 
To him the saddest words of tongue, 
Or pen, are these : When I was young ! 

(February 14, 1894.) 



MY AGE 

I am old enough, to read 

My lord of Byron's "Juan" again, 
Count Grammont's babbling chronicle 

Of Charles' fair beauties — Castlemaine, 
Mischievous Stewart, Portsmouth, Gwyn, 
And all the Maids of. Honor-ed sin 

In Catherine of Braganza's train; 
And ancient folios of Avon's Will, 
And feel not passion's pulses thrill 

"With hot blood gushing from the brain ! 

I am old enough to let 

The preachers wrangle and grow hot 
O'er dogmas theological, 

And damn each other ! — to care not 
Who's right or wrong, as long as I 

Am left to worship in what way 
It seemeth best to me, — to die 



MY AGE 115 

In peace, and go to heaven straight 

By my own route if so I may ! 

I am old enough to write 

A letter — if so be I must — 
To all my neighbors' pretty wives, 

(And sweethearts, too, i' faith!) and trust 
My conscience slumbering sweetly o'er 

Them all (the women 't is, I mean) ; 
For I am doubly rich in lore 

Of things we learn behind the screen — 

Of pads, cosmetics, rouge and black, 
And in their loves and vows angelic, 

The saving faith, I fear, I lack. 

I am old enough to see 

That men are constant — as the wind 
That shifts three times an hour, or more; 

That they are Justice 's self — as blind 
As the bandaged nymph with "loaded" scales — 
(I think 't is Shakespeare o'er her rails) ; 

That they are honest, — so I think 



116 FOBEST AND TOWN 

The world is worth reforming .... not ! 

And hence I only smile and wink 

Where once I preached and stormed and raved. 
By heaven, I thought the reformer's lot 

Unpleasant, though the world was saved ! 

I am old enough to tell 

Just how they make the flakes of snow, 
The lightning's flash, the thunder's peal, 

And all the stage tricks, high and low, 
For I have been behind life's scenes 

And merrily trod the slippery path — 

(In youth who thinks of coming wrath?) — 
From end to end, through golden means ; 

And I have known ambition's curse, 
I've paid the bill, I know the cost 

Of nights bereft of sleep, — and worse, 
Of bootless days in labor lost! 

I am old enough to swear 

That fame's a moral penny show, 
And he who pays his double fare 



MY AGE li; 

Is bowed to honor's box . . . Below, 
A shabby coat, a battered hat — 

' ' A brain, ' ' you say ? (I do declare, 
We've done away with all of that!) — 

They smell to heaven a vile offense ! 
Out! as we live, the purse's the thing, 

And fame is a bawd for dollars and cents ! 

I am old enough to swear 

That life's a farce and man's a fool! 
I like the play — ring up the curtain, 

These forty years I've been to school 
And only t 'learn this much of art — 

(0 Socrates, of this I'm certain) — 
That I mistook throughout my part, 

That heads ache — up there in the skies, 
And men bid youth and happiness 

A long good night ere they grow wise! 

(February 18, 1894.) 



A LIFE CREED 

soul of mine, 
That's half divine 
And half of hell, — 
Look up, see clear, 
See deep and well ; 
Cast off these sins 
That thou dost fear 
Aloud to tell ! 
Beyond the night 
Of earth, beyond 
The tomb, God's light 
Shines fair and bright. 
Life's weary way, 
heart, keep right — 
Do all thou may 
Of good, forgive 
The wrong done thee- 
Love all; let live 



A LIFE CREED 119 

Thy brother dust ; 
Be firm, be just, 
And merciful; 
Be humble, trust 
In faith sublime 
In Him; so span 
Thy little time 
Of pain and song, 
And little length 
That seemeth long, 
And humbly pray 
To Him for strength 
To shun the wrong, 
And do the right. 
And so await — 
Patient alway — 
Come soon, come late, 
God's judgment day. 



(January, 1875.) 



FAME 

If ever, be it now ! 

The fame that comes too late 
Is like the praise that's graven 

Upon the coffin plate. 

What matters it to me 

When life has passed away, 

That on my tombstone's writ: 
"He liveth for alway!" 

Aye, crown me now, or nev'r, 
With fame's eternal bays! 

To-morrow, it may be, 
I '11 care naught for your praise ! 



THE NIGHT WALKER 

Under the light of the flick 'ring lamp 
I hear her ghostly and uncertain tramp, 
As she reels and staggers her way along 

The darksome street through mud and mire. 
I hear the drunken, blasphemous oaths 
That in her better moods she herself loaths, 
And snatches of a ribald song; 

I read in her face the brutal desire. 
An odalisque might envy her perfect form, 

An houri her eye of flashing fire. 
Little recks she of drizzling rain or storm, 

A woman once beautiful and pure, but sold 
In an evil hour to ease and pride and wrong, 

Her precious soul against man's subtler gold. 

She 's only a thing of rags and tatters, — 
As long as men have money, what matters ? 
A woman who might have taken her place, 



122 FOBEST AND TOWN 

The mother of a future noble race, 
She's only a chattel for a curse or a jeer, 
To be used, then cast aside with a sneer ; 
She's the logical product of civ 'lization, 
The natural daughter of a Christian nation! 

Jesus, with Thy teachings see what men 
Have done ! come Thou down to earth again 

To be re-crucified — if God so will ! 
For Thou didst believe, in the purity of Thy 

heart, 
That Thou could 'st trust Thy sacrificial part — 

But men are vile, and women viler still ! 



HOW LONG? 
I 

From north to south, from east to west 

The deadly trust! 
It has us by the throat, it grinds 

Us to the dust! 

It masses wealth upon the poor, 

It sets its prices; 
For greed it makes, and it unmakes, 

Financial crises. 

II 

He who gives bread for labor's sweat, 

Forfeits all right; 
He must obey the Union's rules, 

Shut down, or fight!* 



124 FOMEST AND TOWN 

The labor unions rule the land, 

And you and me; 
The Union label's on the flag 

That once was free! 

Ill 

brother mine, American, 

Answer — how long, 

With coward souls, will we submit 
To this great wrong? 

Our fathers fought in freedom's name — 

A patriot band; 
May not the clash of arms once more 

Sound through the land! 

The ballot box is mightier than 

The bayonet; 
O brother mine, awake ! 'tis not 

Too late as yet! 



* Some years ago I discharged a printer for drunken- 
ness. A few days later, a representative of the Printers ' 
Union called on me and stated that I had no right to dis- 



HOW LONG? 125 

charge the printer; I would have to submit the question 
to the Union whether or not he should be discharged, 
and pending the investigation, I would have to pay his 
wages. I declined submitting to any such autocratic 
mandate. ' ' Then, we '11 boycott your printing establish- 
ment, " said the Union representative, "and you'll have 
to shut down, or fight ! ' ' 



DEFEAT 

I've missed the measure of my life, — 
I've asked too much; 

Some men are born for great ends, I 
Am not of such. 

I've missed the measure of my life, — 
I've looked too high; 

Fate doomed me t' grovel on the earth, 
I know not why. 

Lo! all I ask of life to-day, 

Is peace and rest! 
I wrought, I failed; 'twas not my fault, 

I did my best. 

I've crushed ambition in my heart; 

I've slain my life; 
I'm done with hope; I'm through 

With earthly strife. 



DEFEAT 127 

This hard, utilitarian age 

That scoffs at God, 
Crowns little men of little deeds, 

Who moil and plod. 

May God forgive the wasted days, 

The futile nights ! — 
'Twas only yesterday I saw 

The clearer lights. 

Ah, life is grand and beautiful ! 

'Tis living 's drear ; 
The loneliness of living kills 

Us year by year. 

A little while — ail will be done ; 

I cannot grieve. 
My life is vain. I nothing brought, 

I '11 nothing leave ! 



AN ADJURATION 

Almighty Father ! Thou who knowest all 
Our secret thoughts and base desires; 
Thou who weighest with charity the sins 
Of our inheritance, innate in blood 
That is not ours — but still must be our curse 
And penance for the crimes of others, — sins 
That we with anguished soul and bruised flesh 
Struggle to leave undone, uncommitted. 
Thou knowest all my bitter struggles 'gainst 

myself, 
And so I humbly pray thee mercy! I 
Even beseech thee to forgive the sins 
I have committed in the wanton flesh, 
For they have crucified my soul in agonies 
Of suff 'ring, and so cleansed and purified it ; not. 
If so may be, in other worlds, but in this world 
Oh let me further expiate my sins, 
So that I may be meet to look upon 
Thy glory, unabashed and unafraid ! 



THE NEW PHILOSOPHY 

The new philosophy's abroad, — 

It's spreading fast; 
All earthly wisdom's born to-day, 

It has no past. 

All men will roll in wealth, no one 

Need toil a day; 
Our lives will be alike one long 

And joyous play. 

No one will care for wealth or power, 

Or friend, or foe; 
There will be neither cold nor heat, 

Nor rain nor snow. 

There will be neither crime nor sin, — 

Nor stain, nor blight; 
They're natural — what's natural 

Is always right. 



Ui 



130 FOREST AND TOWN 

Sex shall not be ! The women will 

Be free as air; 
They'll vote, they'll do men's work, they'll 
learn 

To drink and swear. 

The women will be chattels all — 

To use at will; 
No family we'll need, nor home, 

Our hearts to fill. 

There'll be no sickness in the land, 

All will be blessed, — 
For Christian Science tells us that 

All pain's a jest. 

And this is brotherhood, and this 

Is liberty! 
No law, no church — just self we own, 

We all are free! 

And this philosophy will build 
A hardy race; 



THE NEW PHILOSOPHY 131 

All earthly suffering, pain, and sin 
It will efface. 

The grand millennium, we are told, 

Is close at hand; 
All hail the New Philosophy ! 

God save our land! 



THE SOCIALISTS 

A century has flitted by, 

But all in vain; 
To worship Goddess Reason, we 

Have learned again.* 

The prostitute our sister is, 

We kiss her hand ; 
Our brother is the midnight thief 

Who sacks the land. 

Some men will work, some men will idle 

This is the sequel: 
The wages earned must be divided — 

For all are equal. 

No competition there shall be, 

No bettered skill; 
The human race must not progress, — 

It must stand still. 



TEE SOCIALISTS 133 

This is the brotherhood of man 

They preach so well ; 
Equality that's not in heaven, 

Nor yet in hell ! 

They scoff at wedlock, tell us lust 

Is all of love; 
They heed no laws on earth, they know 

No God above! 

Their talk is socialism, cant, 

And equal right; 
They idle life in strikes by day, 

They're drunk at night. 

They wallow in the mire, and cry 

They 're clean and pure ; 
Lord, how long must decency 

Such brutes endure? 



* During the French Revolution, the mcb of sans-culottes 
carried a prostitute on a platform through the streets of 
Paris and paid her worship as the Goddess of Reason. 
The American socialist, a European importation, denies 
religion and claims reason as his guidance. 



EVENTIDE 

I sing the threnody of eventide. 
Life's tinsel glory's but a pass'd delight; 
Time soon will turn the page adown and close 
the book. 

I utter no word of complaint. 
Lo ! I have lived the full tide of my years ; 
In sunshine and in shadow, one life part 
And parcel of the common earthly lot, — 
Though it may be, apart in its self -isolation. 

So — 
So ever willing let me do my share of work 
Each day, asking nor praise nor recompense ; 
And if, at times, drear hours of despair 
Enwrap my soul, may I not forget the strength 
That comforted, and so upheld me, in the dark 
And awful desolation of those passed days 
When faith in man was dead and life was all 
a blank, — 



EVENTIDE 135 

The memory of the golden hours that found me 

confident 
In self and trusting, walking childhood's silent 

hills 
In joyous ecstacy, or dreaming by the river's 

side 
Of love and grandeur everlasting, — when the 

light 
Within me glowed and warmed, and I resolved 
I would be brave and face life again ; I would 
Have courage 'mid the tempests of the coming 

years, 
And crush life 's opposition in triumphal song ! 

blessed hand stretched out across the silent 

gulf! 
Ward thou from me the awful bitterness 
And the quick passion of unguarded moments; 

let 
Me not forget through pride and vanity, 
That love is but the blindness of the heart, 
That fame is fickle as a maiden's moods, 



m FOEEST AND TOWN 

That earthly power and riches of the spirit are, 
And of the spirit only. Though th' indifferent 

world 
Knows me not, nor does understand me, let my 

thoughts 
And actions be such as may ever keep 
Me friendly with my better self ; — mine eyes 
Lift from the passing earth, and let me not 

forget 
The daily uses of the distant stars. 
Forbid that I on others judgment pass 
Lest I condemn myself. Let me not feel 
The tinsel glamour of the hollow world 
Blinding mine eyes and leading me to selfish 

ends, 
But calmly and contently walk in my own narrow 

path ; 
Keep ever burning 'fore my wandering, totter- 
ing steps 
The glowing light of hope; and what though 

age, 
Ingratitude, and drear infirmity 



EVENTIDE 137 

'ertake me and I come not even within sight, 
Or loving touch of my life's earthy dreams, 
Still teach me, Heavenly Father, to be thankful 

for this boon 
Of life, and for youth's golden moments that 

were good 
And sweet ; and may the evening twilight falling 

like 
A benediction softly on the closing scene, 
Still find me patient, gentle, and resigned ! 



THE LITERATURE OF THE 
LOUISIANA TERRITORY 

By Alexander Nicolas DeMenil, Ph. D., LL. D., 
Former Director Louisiana Purchase Exposition Company. 

Students of literature and collectors of Americana will 
find it not only valuable for study but for preservation as 
a book of reference. — St. Louis Evening Star. 

An interesting and valuable work. — New Orleans Pica- 
yune. 

A really important book. — Chicago Daily News. 

This book is valuable. — Denver News-Times. 

Contains a large amount of data and facts placed be- 
fore the public for the first time. — The Bookman. 

A book of special interest — Savannah Morning News. 

Unique in its field ... of much value. — Baltimore 
Daily Sun. 

We do not know of any book that should appeal more 
universally to the big world of lovers of literature. — Bos- 
ton Courier. 

A rare combination of information and enlightenment. 
— Buffalo Times. 

Contains a remarkable amount of information. — St. 
Louis Globe-Democrat. 

The criticisms are especially bright and happy. — New 
Orleans Times-Democrat. 



In the main the author has done his work well. — Chi- 
cago Be cord-Herald. 

It represents a vast amount of labor and research. — 
Toledo (O.) Blade. 

It has interest in the general presentation of the sub- 
ject and as a book of reference. — New Bedford (Mass.) 
Evening Standard. 

Shows an immense amount of research. — Chicago Chron- 
icle. 

Cloth; price, $1.50. 



SONGS IN MINORITY 

By Alexander Nicolas DeMenil 

This dainty little book by a well-known American writer 
has a peculiar charm and flavor that is its owd. — Liver- 
pool (England) Crescent. 

The poems are nearly all of a high order of merit, and 
a few of them are of extraordinary excellence. — Daily 
Mexican Herald, City of Mexico, Mexico. 

These poems of Dr. De Menil are very widely quoted 
by our exchanges across the line. — Alberta (Canada) Ma- 
ple Leaf. 

A wreath of early verse by an interesting author. — 
Boston Courier. 

More than commonly acceptable — St. Louis Globe-Dem- 
ocrat. 

Does not lack poetic expression. — Saint John (New 
Brunswick) Daily Globe. 

A little book of verse which is very interesting. — St. 
Louis Bepublic. 



That exquisite little poem, ' ' The Blue Bird, ' ' is going 
1 1 the rounds of the press. ' ' — Chicago Daily Sun. 

The whole collection of poems is very acceptable and 
enjoyable indeed. — Bridgeport (Conn.) Daily Standard. 

We have read this book with great pleasure. — Buffalo 
Evening Times. 

Has a quaint, unique tone as compared with books of 
poetry of the last thirty years. — Norristown (Pennsylva- 
nia) Daily Herald. 

Intelligent readers of current poetry will meet with 
much in these verses that " finds" them. — The Church 
News. 

Cloth; price, 90 cts. 



FOR SALE BY 

THE TORCH PRESS BOOK SHOP 

CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA 



NOV 35 1910 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 






